Nighttime
by AssassinOfRome
Summary: Sherlock's acting stranger than usual and John is worried he's having a drugs relapse. But may be something more mysterious is afoot...  Rated T because Anderson ends up in Sherlock's flat sooo...
1. In the beginning

"God, Sherlock. You look a mess!" exclaimed Lestrade as John and Sherlock walked into the crime scene. His face was pale (well paler) and his eyes were deeply shadowed. Curly black hair stuck out at all angles. His clothes were rumpled and he looked skinnier than ever. John limped beside him.

"I've been telling him that for days."

"Shut up both of you. I'm fine." Sherlock growled. "Mother Hens." he whispered under his breath.

"You really don't. You look as if you just had pneumonic plague."

"Don't be preposterous, John. The plague has been abolished for hundreds of years."

"Not in Afghanistan." John paused to shudder.

Sherlock and Lestrade raised their eyebrows in response. Anderson walked in the room, pulling on a pair of latex gloves. He nodded approval to John and the DI but did a double-take at Sherlock's white face.

"...wow." his eyes glanced from Sherlock to the corpse that was in the middle of the room. "Which one is dead?"

"Bad insult, Anderson." Sherlock spat back "It must be so difficult to tell us apart." Sarcasm dripped heavily from his words.

Lestrade was staring at Sherlock, head cocked to the left slightly. He pulled out his phone and glanced at it, mouth forming a silent o as he realized his dilemma.

"Sherlock, go home. It's getting late."

"But we've only just got..." Sherlock usually smooth voiced trailed off into a low moan as he stared out the window. John followed Sherlock's gaze. London looked it exactly the same as normal. Same buildings and monuments. Same roads and same people. The same street-lamps were lit. Nothing has changed. Sherlock shot a thankful look at Lestrade and practically ran from the room. John stared reproachfully at Lestrade, followed his best friend out the room and stepped into the cold London Street. Seeing John had caught up with him, Sherlock wasted no time in flagging a taxi.

The cab ride home was awkward. Sherlock was staring anxiously out of the window and John wanted to ask why but didn't know how to phrase it properly. 10 minutes seemed to span on for centuries. When they arrive at Baker Street, Sherlock threw some notes at the cabbie and ran inside. John limped after him, after apologizing. By the time he got into the flat, Sherlock had run to his room and locked the door, leaving a confused John in his wake.


	2. Things get awkward

Sherlock didn't leave his room until the next morning. He looked as if he hadn't slept at all. John thought he had heard pacing above him as he slept and that seemed possible.

"Do you want some toast?"

Sherlock mumbled. John asked again, turning round to look at his flat-mate. His usually silver eyes were clouded over as if in a trance. Waving his hand in front of Sherlock's face, he sighed.

"Sherlock? Hello? Anyone home?"

A look of surprise crossed Sherlock's white features. Blinking rapidly, he stared at John.

"What? Sorry. Didn't quite catch that."

"Are you ok? Do you zone out a lot?"

"Err…yeah. Sometimes."

"Do you want some toast then?"

"No. I'm fine."

"Come on Sherlock, you have to eat something."

"You sound so much like my school friend, Ellie. She wouldn't let me be fine either."

He turned round in his chair, sulking. He gripped his forearm wincing.

"Are you ok? What's wrong?"

"Nothing, nothing. I'm fine. Leave me alone." Sherlock whimpered.

"But…"

Sherlock ran out of the room and into his own. John's worry was increasing. Mrs Hudson shuffled into the room.

"Had a domestic, dear?"

"No. But I do think something's wrong with Sherlock."

"Just give him a couple of days. He'll be fine. Do you want a cup of tea, love?"

"No, I'm ok, Mrs Hudson. I have to get to work." John stood up. "But thanks for the offer."

He walked out of the flat.


	3. The Phone Call

Only after John was sure that Sherlock had left the flat (He had exclaimed that he was 'Going out' and that John shouldn't wait up for him), did he grab his mobile. He went the speed-dial section and selected Lestrade. Nervously, he waited for Gabriel to pick up.

"Hello. Detective Inspector Lestrade here. How can I help?"

"Hi. It's John here. I need to talk to you. I think Sherlock's doing drugs again."

There was an awkward pause of Lestrade's end.

"Err John… Do you have any evidence?"

"Not as such. But he's been acting strangely and hasn't left the flat for days. Except now. He said he's going out and I don't think he'll be back soon."

"Well what do you want me to do?"

"I think we need a drugs bust."

There was another pause.

"I can't just do a drugs bust with no evidence."

"Yes you can. You did it on my first case with Sherlock."

"How's the blog going?"

"Don't change the subject. Look, we can do it tomorrow. I'll tell Sherlock that I'm going to see Sarah, go to Scotland Yard, we go back to Baker Street, I walk in then you come in with your squad. See, it's simple. He won't know what's hit him."

"That sounded malicious, John."

"Come on Gabe, he looks half dead. If he's not doing drugs, he must be ill. So the faster we eliminate the drugs theory, if incorrect, the sooner we can make Sherlock better. Then he can do your case and everyone's happy." The doctor sounded determined

"But John…"

"No buts, Lestrade. We have to do this."

Lestrade sighed.

"Ok. What time?"

"About seven."

"Ok. And John, if he kills us, this was your idea."

"I know."

John put down the phone, relieved.


	4. The Calm before The Storm

"Sherlock, I'm going out."

Sherlock mumbled something inaudible, probably because he was biting his bottom lip. Hard. He had been very jittery and when John put a hand in his shoulder, he jumped. But what concerned the doctor was the fact Sherlock seemed in constant pain. He was gripping his forearm tightly and wincing.

"Hey, are you okay?" John asked softly.

Sherlock shot him a suspicious look, one eyebrow raised.

"Yes. Why do you ask?"

"It's just… you look…"

"I look what?"

"Breakable."

Sherlock scoffed.

"I'm fine. Have fun at your date."

"Ok. See you 'bout 11."

"Bye."

"Bye, Sherlock. Text if you need me."

John walked out of the flat and down the stairs thinking about what they were going to do. Out in the street, John flagged a taxi.

"One to Scotland Yard, please."

…

"Shush… he can't know were here." John barked. "Look I'll go in first and then when I give the signal, which is…?" he asked

"Twitching the curtain" replied Lestrade.

"Yeah. Then you can go in. Ready."

Lestrade, Donavon and Anderson nodded. John opened the door.

"Sherlock?" he called. "Are you there?"

There was no reply. John realised the plan wouldn't work if there was no Sherlock. The detective had been in when John left but the man was unpredictable. He could have gone out. John limped up the stairs. The flat was silent. John could hear Sherlock breathing. But it seemed laboured. Slower.

'Is he asleep?' John pondered. It would be harsh to wake him up; he rarely got enough sleep anyway. He might not even have any drugs. But it was a risk he had to take. Taking a deep breath, John opened the door. And the first thing he saw was a wolf on the sofa. John took one look in the creature's eyes. Its whole expression read one thing: 'Oh shit.'


	5. Invasion

**Thank you for all the reviews, you have been very kind. No moneys being made, I don't own the characters yadda yadda yah. I have school tomorrow. Half term is over so post might become less frequent. NOOOO! Also Anderson's song (I hate that guy and his floozy) is She Wolf by Shakira and I love the interbang! YAY! Enjoy!**

"Mrs Hudson? Why is there a wolf on the sofa?" called John to his and Sherlock's landlady-not-housekeeper who was in her flat downstairs.

"Oh. That's just Sherlock, dear. He won't bite. At least I don't think he will…" She trailed off.

"John? Is something wrong?" Lestrade shouted through the open front door.

"Oh god… I think you should come up here! Shit. F*cking hell!"

Lestrade, Donavon, Anderson and the whole drugs squad burst through the doors of 221B Baker Street. The wolf nuzzled his head into his forelegs as if embarrassed. The beast had dark grey fur with a lighter muzzle and underbelly. Its eyes were bright silver and you could see its ribs through its skin. Claws burst from its paws when the squad entered the living room. Upon seeing the creature, Anderson proceeded to hide behind Sally for protection. Lestrade walked up to 'Sherlock'. He spoke in a low slow soft voice similar to Sherlock's own.

"Sherlock, can you here me?"

The wolf's head lifted. The claws retracted.

"Good boy." Lestrade scratched the wolf behind the ears. A low moan of pleasure came from the creature's throat. Its expression was one of pleasure until it realised what it was doing in light of which it hastily stopped. Anderson, seeing that the wolf was no threat, came out from behind his college. The pair stared at each other, then Sherlock and immediately burst into laughter. Some other members of the squad began to smile but stopped when they saw the look of the wolf's face. As a human, it made grown men run from the room. As an animal, especially a carnivore, it made them piss themselves. But Donavon and Anderson kept laughing.

"HE'S A …A … WEREWOLF!" exclaimed Sally in glee. Anderson began to fiddle with his phone

"I knew there was a reason for downloading this song…" he muttered under his breath. A series of clicks later and a tune began to play.

'_There's a She-Wolf in the closet. Open up and set it free. ARROOO! There's a She-Wolf in the closet…'_

The song stopped when Anderson dropped his phone on the floor, smashing it in the process. He was being pinned to the wall by a very angry wolf which was snarling through its yellow teeth, silver eyes narrowed. The forensic scientist screamed, trying to shove the creature off of him. Everyone in the room froze. The creature pushed back. Harder. Its claws began to unleash themselves, one by one. Sally tried to pull the creature of Anderson. It growled. She let go. Anderson was eye to eye, nose to snout with the beast that Sherlock had turned into. Lestrade ran to the window, shut the curtains and shouted.

"Sherlock, get the hell off him! Get off, Sherlock!

"Get off you mother-f*cker!" screamed Sally

"HEEL SHERLOCK!" yelled Mrs Hudson from the doorway. The wolf dropped to the floor. He tried to lunge again but John and Lestrade grabbed him from the back, John at the neck, Lestrade at the waist. Anderson slid out of the way of the restrained animal, shoulder bleeding heavily.

"You freak! You asshole!" he yelled. Lestrade pulled Sherlock's ragged tail. He howled and dropped to the floor. Lestrade put his foot on the wolf's spine.

"Don't hurt him!" cried Mrs Hudson over Sherlock's whimpers.

"Do as you please" barked Anderson. Lestrade released Sherlock after glancing at John's hopeful face. He scampered behind Mrs Hudson's legs. Sally aimed a kick at the wolf. She reconsidered her action after noticing the glare directed from Mrs Hudson for the sergeant. Sally drew her leg back slowly. Mrs Hudson turned to Sherlock.

"Go into my flat and change back, dear. There are no windows. " The wolf nodded and bounded down the stairs.

"Anderson, do you want me to clean that shoulder?" said John through clenched teeth. "I'm only asking because it's my duty as a doctor."

"No. I don't want you or that freak anywhere near me." He stepped closer to the doctor. "You knew, didn't you?" He stepped closer again. "You knew he was a… thing, didn't you?" The scientist glared at John. "This was a set-up, wasn't it?"

"I had no idea, Anderson. Honestly."

"Yeah well you can piss off. And your crap friend too"

The verbal battle between them was broken by the sound of footsteps coming from the stairs. Everyone froze again. A very tired, thin, dishevelled Sherlock stood next to Mrs Hudson. He was seething. Mrs Hudson placed her hand on his sticking-out shoulder. He looked at her and took a deep breath.

"Everyone get the f*ck out of my flat."

The whole squad, even Anderson and Donavon, began to file out of the doorway. Lestrade hung back.

"You were meant to keep it a secret. No-one was meant to know." Sherlock pleaded. He stumbled, wavering slightly and Mrs Hudson and John raced to support him, one on either side of the detective. He shooed them away. They let go but they stayed close, just in case he was to fall.

"It wasn't his fault. I arranged a drugs bust." John mumbled. Sherlock tilted his head, confused. His brow creased.

"I thought you were had a relapse. You gave the right signs. And anyway if you weren't drugged up, you seemed really ill. I was worried."

Sherlock looked very surprised. No-one had really cared before. Hanging his head, he whispered.

"I should have told you. You had a right to know. You would have found anyway. Lycanthropy is a bitch. I hope you can accept me."

"Sherlock, of course I can."

Sherlock gave a small smile then stumbled again. John grabbed him.

"I'll be going then" said Lestrade.

"See you tomorrow then."

Everyone looked surprised.

"The case?"

"Oh yeah. Ok. If you feel up to it."

"I'll be fine after a night's sleep."

"Good."

**I'm not sure if I should keep writing. There is more I could do but I'm not sure if I ended it there. Answer in the reviews.**

**AOR**


	6. Cupcakes, Wood and Agatha Christie

**Thanks for the reviews; they're really helpful for plotlines. Also by the way this isn't meant to be slash. If you want it to be slash, I suppose it can be. It is meant to be very strong friend-ship. I don't write slash. I have Slashma. Enjoy. AOR**

The morning after the drugs bust was quiet and cosy. John didn't have work, Lestrade phoned saying that Sherlock couldn't come into Scotland Yard because he was giving the whole drugs squad a major lecture that would bore and embarrass Sherlock and anger John. The DI hadn't forgotten that John had training to kill and his strong defence for Sherlock could cause him to flip. This meant that Sherlock and John were stuck in the flat and because it was raining outside, neither of them really wanted to go anywhere. Sherlock was applying acid to different types of wood and observing the effects, long dressing down wrapped around him for warmth. John was reading an Agatha Christie novel in his stripy jumper. Sherlock didn't usually allow crime novels in his flat (he said it was insulting) but John paid the rent so Sherlock couldn't really stop him. The doctor broke the companionable silence they had been accustomed to.

"So Sherlock, how did you become a werewolf?"

Sherlock was silent. He closed his silver eyes. John wasn't sure if he had over-stepped the mark.

"It's complicated" replied the detective several minutes later.

"I have time."

Sherlock sighed and turned to his flat-mate.

"When I was seventeen, I lived with my Aunt Anna and my Uncle Sherrinford. Things were…" he paused. "…stressed at home. My parents were divorced and I was living my father's brother until I was eighteen. My life was fine. I had my experiments and I had my books. I didn't particularly like my family but they didn't like me so we were acquaintances. Suddenly I started to feel ill at home. I was dizzy and physically sick in the nights. I was nauseous and had a fever of 260. I couldn't talk to anyone. Then one night, I turned into the wolf. I was terrified. I scared the hell out of the maid," he smiled briefly then went back to his tail (Sorry, tale. Bad pun.). "Next thing I remember (I was ill) was being on the phone to my mother. She told me that my condition, lycanthropy, was heredity. My mother was a werewolf too. She had never told me. I cursed myself for not noticing but she was ill most of the time so I rarely saw her outside of her bed. She also told me that it sometimes skipped a generation, explaining why Mycroft is not a werewolf. Mother told me that I should tell no-one except people that were necessary. That was the last time I ever spoke to her. She immigrated to France a year later and she was dead 5 years after that."

John was silent, unsure how to process the information that he had been given.

"How does it affect your life? Being a wolf, I mean."

"Well, it doesn't affect me that much. I just have to change once every night of the full moon for half an hour. Also my arm hurts. I am currently studying my symptoms to see if it depends on what I do before. Oh and changing really hurts. It consists of lots of pain then a flash of silver and I'm the wolf. I can't really control it."

Sherlock's monologue was broken by the beep of John's phone. The doctor blushed and answered. It was from Sarah.

"I have to go. Sarah said she's made cupcakes. I bring you some back. Do you need anything? Dog food?"

Sherlock scowled at his flatmate but as John walked out of the door he said,

"A couple of treats wouldn't go amiss though."

John smiled and limped down the stairs.


	7. Cheshire Cat in Wolf World

**Hey peeps! You reviews have been awesome and really helpful. I was maybe thinking of, once this is done, writing a sequel. It would contain a wedding, Harry Watson, Irene Adler and the Hound of Baskervilles! Hopefully it would have more of the case than my stories so far. What are your thoughts? Review and tell me! AOR**

Sherlock was allowed back on the case the following day. He, Lestrade and John waited outside the room where the post-mortem took place. The detective was restless, pacing back and forth and generally getting under the DI and the good doctor's nerves.

"Dammit Sherlock!" shouted Lestrade half an hour into the wait. "If you can't stop walking around, at least go and get us some coffee."

Sherlock processed this information, nodded and scampered down the hall. He returned sometime later with a latte for Gabriel, a de-caff the way John liked it and a double expresso for himself. They sat in silence, sipping out of the flimsy plastic cups. The apprehension was so thick you could cut it with a knife.

Several hours later, it was over. Lestrade and Sherlock were pouring over the results when a tap was felt the consulting detective on the shoulder. He whizzed around so fast he almost hit Anderson in the face.

"What do you want?" he barked.

Anderson seemed to squirm under the force of his words.

"Err…Sherlock…I need to talk to you. In private."

Sherlock was taken aback and cocked his head slightly to one side.

"Can John come? He will keep this problem secret. And I may need a second opinion."

"When do you need a second opinion?" asked the doctor in question. Sherlock waved his hand slightly and muttered,

"Trivial matters."

"Ok, fine. But he must promise not to tell anyone or post it on his blog."

"Scouts Honour." John held three fingers over his heart. Anderson seemed to take this as an acceptable answer and led them into the now deserted operating room.

"Sherlock how is lycanthropy spread?" he rubbed his shoulder and refused to look at his sworn enemy.

"By contact, usually resulting in open wounds. Why?"

Anderson paled, mouth opening and closing like a goldfish but no sound came out. The fear in his eyes was monumental.

"No… no… no… no…" he sobbed "I can't be… no…"

"What's wrong? Mike?"

"He made me… one of them."

"One of what?"

The forensic scientist was silent. He ran his hands through his hair.

"Werewolf." Anderson's voice seemed to be caught in his throat. Sherlock grinned like the Cheshire Cat.

"Oh no Anderson, you misunderstand. Lycanthropy is spread via bites. Your scratches are just scratches."

"Oh… God! Yes…" he fell to the floor in a dead faint. The detective nudged Mike with his foot. He was struggling to suppress a smile. Suddenly he couldn't take it much longer. A small giggle emitted from his mouth. John bit his lip but couldn't stop himself from laughing either. Once they stopped and got their breath back, Sherlock turned to his companion,

"You weren't really in Scouts, were you?

"No." he stared at his flat-mate. An evil look was forming behind his silver eyes which both had a small spark dancing in their pupils. "But that would be cruel."

Sherlock almost pouted.


	8. Resalution

**Audience? What are you doing reading my fan fiction audience? As Tobuscus (see previous quote) fans will know, its Toby's birthday! Happy Birthday Toby! This is the final chapter of this story! But don't be sad, dear fan fiction readers, I ****will**** write a sequel! It will contain Irene Adler, Harry Watson, The Hound of the Baskervilles, a wedding, Basil the mouse and maybe some Baker Street Boys! There might not be so much lycanthropy because full moons don't go on forever but it will be good. I hope. Please review and tell me what you think! I also need a name for the off! AOR **

2 hours had passed since Anderson's fainting fit and Sherlock almost had the murder in his grasp. He was sure that the male responsible would be found at The Greyhound Pub well away from the public view. Sherlock, John and Lestrade were waiting outside in the dark night. Lestrade had just sent in some undercover operatives when Sherlock whimpered and doubled over in pain. John and the DI ran over, terrified.

"Sherlock, what's wrong?" cried the doctor, voice high with fear.

The detective panted. His face was pale, expression agonized and his silver eyes were huge with fear. He bit his lip hard. It started to bleed. A flash of light burst from Sherlock's general direction and in Sherlock's place sat a very pissed-off looking grey wolf swamped in a long black coat and a deep blue scarf tied around his neck. It howled angrily. Suddenly the murder burst from the pub doors and into the darkness, Sherlock at his heels. John and Lestrade stared at each other for a second and quickly followed suit. The procession wound its way through every alley and back-street in London before it was brought to a halt by Sherlock pouncing on the criminal and bringing him to the ground. Lestrade, who was right behind Sherlock along with John, quickly handcuffed the murder and the other officers took him away.

"Go home, you two. You need some rest." Lestrade order the 'dynamic duo'. They didn't take much persuading. They sat in the back of a police car, only because they knew no sane cabbie would take a wolf and they didn't want to meet any more insane ones. This had some disadvantages aka. Waking up their landlady-not-house-keeper. She bustled out of the front door, demanding to know everything that had happened, voice loud. But Sherlock snuffled her hand and she instantly softened, allowing them to sleep before telling her everything the next day. She only stopped them to give John the post. It was mostly bills and junk but a golden envelope stuck out of the pile. It was addressed,

_To John H. Watson_.

To Be Continued…


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